


and they linger on

by yukla



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Falling In Love, M/M, Mentioned dub-con between Napoleon and male OC, Misunderstandings, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Sexual Tension, gaby is the real mvp, honestly how does she deal with them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 02:51:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10688286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yukla/pseuds/yukla
Summary: He feels anything but fine, but he sits straight and keeps quiet even as something burns right through the heart of him, eats away at his chest from the inside out—and in the end, that is no one’s fault but his own.***Napoleon watches from afar, and then realizes he had it all wrong from the very start.





	and they linger on

When Napoleon looks back on bygone days, trying helplessly to figure out exactly when the aching in his chest began, he finds it very difficult to pin down a time or place.

Maybe in Milan, where he heard Illya laugh out loud for the first time. Napoleon had been mid-way through a particularly ridiculous anecdote about his thieving days when Illya let out a half-stifled chuckle. It was a quiet, choked laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. He had seemed almost surprised at himself, and as Napoleon and Gaby gazed upon him in silent delight, he looked to be on the verge of getting up and leaving out of embarrassment. But Napoleon gave him a returning bark of laughter and Gaby slapped him playfully on the arm, and Illya’s face relaxed. Napoleon continued on with his story, and for hours afterward, he had felt a strange lightness in his bones.

Or maybe in Istanbul, where Illya finally agreed to a game of post-mission chess with him and trounced Napoleon soundly, a self-satisfied smirk in his eyes. Napoleon, liqueur-warm and loose with fatigue, had draped himself over the couch and complained dramatically to a sarcastically sympathetic Gaby, craving Illya’s attention for some odd, half-formed reason that he couldn’t quite identify. The other man had mocked him, not for the first time that day. He had said it was  _ hard to take you seriously when you are always preening and lounging like spoiled cat, Cowboy, _ and somehow, Napoleon just hadn’t felt as offended as he supposes he should have felt.

Or maybe it was even all the way back in Rome, when Napoleon had hit the brakes to the truck, not even a minute into his plan to drive away to safety from the Vinciguerra compound and leave the Russian to his cold, wet fate in the harbor. He sat there, feeling the steady thrum of the engine through the shabby seat, the taste of some unlucky man’s sandwich still lingering on his tongue, soft Italian crooning in his ears, and found that he had no wish for Illya to die.

But really, truly, Napoleon doesn’t know when it began at all. So when he looks at Illya one day, watches golden light spill across his face and cast shadows in the upwards curve of Illya’s lips, and feels the breath catch in his throat, he is caught off guard. Gaby must see something in his eyes, because she gives him a concerned look, but he brushes her off, tells her that he’s fine.

It’s a spectacular lie. Napoleon feels like he’s been blown off his feet, like he has suddenly plunged headfirst into the freezing sea, lost in the sweeping, briny darkness. He feels anything but fine, but he sits straight and keeps quiet even as something burns right through the heart of him, eats away at his chest from the inside out—and in the end, that is no one’s fault but his own.

*** 

They’re in Madrid, and, once again, it is Illya and Gaby’s turns to play the newlywed couple. They weave arm-in-arm through the crush of the crowd, skirting overflowing fruit stands and shouting spice-sellers as they slowly make their way through the market.

Napoleon follows a dozen paces behind, for all appearances a lone businessman taking advantage of his hard-to-come-by free time, leaving the comfort of his hotel room to explore in the stifling heat. He stops at several stalls, examining fruits and tapestries and other little knickknacks while letting his partners pull ahead, but keeps his focus locked firmly onto their retreating backs. For a moment, he lingers in place, and simply watches.

The pair’s figures cut through the dusty air, Gaby in a beautiful cream dress with matching floppy hat, Illya in a devastatingly sharp—not that Napoleon would ever admit that to him—black-on-black ensemble. If he feels the heat building in his dark clothing, he shows no sign of it, only nods and smiles faintly at Gaby’s stream of comments. They look every bit the freshly-married, young and in love pair that they’re supposed to be playing.

They pause next to a stall of tiny, carefully-carved statues. Gaby drags her gaze across the small collection, and her face lights up as her gaze pauses on a specific one. She turns back to Illya, says something and jerks her chin towards it, then tips her head back, looking at him amusedly. Illya, color seeping high into his cheeks, immediately snaps something back and starts moving forward, but visibly hesitates. Gaby says something again, tugging on his arm and staring plaintively, and Illya relents.

He approaches the wrinkled old vendor, and after a flurry of hand gestures, appears to buy the statue. The statue is handed over—it is small and sleek and black, but Napoleon is too far away to see exactly what it is—and Illya cups it gently for a moment, as though he is afraid it might break, before tucking it away in his pocket. He returns to Gaby's side, and she beams up at him happily, before they link arms again and join the crowd once more. Gaby continues to chatter on, and Illya’s gaze does not waver from her face.

For the KGB’s best, Illya is awful at being subtle. He follows after Gaby like a faithful puppy, will do practically anything for her if she asks nicely, and their interactions are sweet and dripping with affection. Napoleon certainly cannot blame him for that. Gaby is beautiful and fiery and whip-sharp, with a clever tongue and bravery in spades. Even he can’t help but adore her for her wild driving and the way she tips down her large white sunglasses to glare at people stupid enough to question her.

Meters away, surrounded by people, Gaby tugs on Illya’s shirt, eyebrows raised demandingly, and he dips down to hear what she has to say. Their heads are very close together. Napoleon watches them, and finds suddenly that his chest feels very tight. He wonders if he should have drank more water before leaving the hotel—it is a very hot day, after all. He’ll have to remember to do that when he gets back. It wouldn’t do to get dehydrated on a mission.

Illya’s head is still tipped toward Gaby’s, his blonde hair nearly brushing her face. Napoleon appraises them from afar, and thinks they look marvelous together. Illya is so tall next to Gaby, towering over her by nearly a foot, but he treats her so gently. He touches her as though she is made of glass, as though she may splinter to pieces if he grips her too hard.

There is a drop of sweat cutting a path down the side of Napoleon’s temple. It’s really very hot. He wonders, for a just split-second, what it might be like for Illya to touch him in that way—imagines large, gentle hands resting at the nape of his neck, at the jut of his hipbones—and then dismisses the thought just as quickly. Illya is in love with Gaby, and that is clear as day to anyone who bothers to look for it.

Napoleon looks, and sees, and continues on walking.

***

That evening, Napoleon drops by Illya and Gaby’s room. The door swings open on the third knock, and Illya—looking exasperated but knowing better than to argue after Napoleon had brushed off his umpteenth  _ What are you doing, Cowboy, this is mission, we are not supposed to be seen interacting— _ steps to the side without a word and lets him in.

Gaby has commandeered the record player, and is swaying slightly as a jazzy tune fills the air. She’s traded her dress for baggy blue pajamas, and her bare toes wiggle absently against the plush carpeting.

“Illya is being a spoilsport,” she declares, brow wrinkled petulantly, as soon as Napoleon steps through the doorway. “We have this wonderful music playing, we have free time, but every time I ask him he says he doesn’t dance and brushes me off for his chess set! Tell me, am I less interesting than a piece of wood?”

The displeasure in her tone does not quite make it to her laughing eyes, and she treats Napoleon to a quicksilver grin. Gaby had told him about the dancing incident several missions after Rome, and they had laughed unrestrainedly over a bottle of wine as Illya had sulked on the side and provided lame excuses for the way Gaby had taken him off guard.

Napoleon steps forward, mock-offended, and aims a frown in Illya’s direction. Illya, returned to his position on the couch, ignores it steadfastly. “Illya, I expected better of you. A real gentleman wouldn’t leave a lady to dance by herself!” He brushes off his suit jacket and throws Gaby a wink as he offers her his hand. “Watch and learn, Peril.”

Gaby, delighted that he has offered himself up as her new dance partner, takes his hand, pulls him into the center of the room, and begins to lead him around in tight, looping circles.

Illya sighs and moves a rook. “Do not come crying to me when she tackles you, Cowboy.”

Gaby and Napoleon stumble their way through uncoordinated, out-of-sync steps and snort as they step on each other’s toes. The lamps in the room throw off a warm light, and the shadows they cast are long and dark. Shadow-Napoleon and Shadow-Gaby whirl across the walls, and the man himself thinks quietly that the playful dancing is a welcome respite from the long and humid dreariness of a day of reconnaissance work.

It is not until Gaby is forcing him through a twirl, snickering as he hunches low to fit under her arm, that he realizes that Illya has been silent for quite a while, and that perhaps inviting Gaby to dance with him in Illya’s presence may not have been the best of ideas. He suppresses a wince and steals a glance at the couch, where Illya has stationed himself with his chess set.

Napoleon looks over just as Illya whips his head back around to face the chessboard.

Illya’s ears are burning red, as though he’s embarrassed to be caught looking, and even his horrible attempt at nonchalance can’t hide the fond smile lingering in the corners of his mouth. His hair falls softly over his forehead, and his nose is so straight. Napoleon’s eyes follow the curve of his jaw and linger on the scar on his temple, until he realizes that he’s been looking too long and snaps his attention back to Gaby.

She is a dizzying sight, tan skin aglow and her eyes creased up in laughter. Stunning, even with her mascara starting to smudge, her hair messy and unstyled. They would really make the perfect pair, Illya and Gaby, he thinks, both of them fierce and strong and genuine. Beautiful, for all their flaws. No wonder Illya was staring at her.

Napoleon’s chest hurts.

Gaby is humming, piping the mellow tune out like a little songbird. The song has changed, Elvis Presley is crooning softly from the record player, and they are simply swaying together now, hands linked like schoolchildren. Her voice is high and clear, and the sound of it snaps Napoleon out of his tangled, murky thoughts. He smooths out the wrinkle forming in his brow and turns to their partner.  

“You sure you don’t want to join us, Peril? Awfully lonely to sit by yourself playing chess when you could be dancing with your companions.”

Illya shakes his head vehemently, not even bothering to turn at Napoleon’s casual invitation. “I do not dance, Cowboy.”

Napoleon is about to make another teasing remark when Gaby breaks in with a scoff. “Don’t bother with that one,” she says, tossing her ponytail for emphasis. Her bangs get in her eyes, and she scowls, using a finger to flick them aside before continuing to speak. “I’ve asked him at least three times today, and he still hasn’t said yes.”

Napoleon chuckles. “Well, no one said our Red Peril isn’t stubborn.” He turns back to her, smile firmly in place as they continue to dance, and does not notice Illya’s gaze returning to rest on his face.

Napoleon dips his chin, watches Gaby sway, and lets the music wash over him.

_ Take my hand, take my whole life, too... _

***

“I had it all under control!” Napoleon raises his voice over the rumble of the engine as he stares Illya down across the cramped backseat. Illya stares straight back, the unimpressed look on his face at odds with his white-knuckled grip on the back of the leather seats, as Gaby sends the car into yet another wildly sharp turn.

“Yes, Cowboy. Locked in room, handcuffed to bedposts, cover blown, you had mission completely under control. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before, my sincere apologies,” Illya deadpans. His lips are thinned in the way that indicates he is barely holding back the urge to swat Napoleon across the head. “Were you going to crack open safe before or after you broke thumbs to escape?”

“You know, Peril, I don’t appreciate your tone. I most certainly could have handled Akeley by myself—and my cover was  _ not _ blown, you did that yourself by breaking down the door like a raging elephant,” Napoleon shoots back indignantly. A sudden spray of bullets ricochets against the metal of the car, but neither of them pay it much mind.

The trio had been sent to Sweden in order to retrieve stolen documents from a suspected arms dealer. Thomas Akeley was cocky, pompous, and had a taste for pretty, dark-haired men—which made him, as far as U.N.C.L.E. was concerned, the perfect target for Napoleon. The plan was for Napoleon to seduce Akeley into taking him back to his place, tire him out, then crack open Akeley’s safe while he was sleeping and make a quick getaway with the necessary documents.

What they had not accounted for was the fact that Akeley seemed to have a rather unconventional taste in sexual activity, or that he had a very nice collection of toys in his bedroom for the express purpose of using them on his frequent bedmates, regardless of consent. By the time Napoleon had realized what he’d gotten himself into, it was too late to inform his partners of the new developments, and after a full fifteen minutes of radio silence from Napoleon’s end, Illya had burst into Akeley’s apartment, guns blazing, ready to free the American from whatever new mess he’d created.

In short, the mission had not gone as planned.

Napoleon flings a hand out towards the dusty back window, where he can see a car of armed men slowly drawing closer and closer through the darkening streets. “If we had done things my way, there would be no need for this ridiculous chase. I would have been in—”

“—and out, no mess, heard it before, Solo. But your way is a fool’s way. Not a surprise, you Americans and your brashness and overconfidence—”

“Like you’re any better,  _ Kuryakin, _ what was it you said in Argentina? Oh yes, ‘No need for backup, I can fight my way out without help!’”

“Whose fault was it that we were trapped in first place? If you had not—”

“Well, we aren’t talking about what I did! You could have gotten yourself killed—”

“You are pot calling the kettle black, Solo, you foolhardy—”

“—don’t change the topic, I am trying to—”

“Boys!” Gaby finally shouts, nostrils flaring. “While your emotional constipation and inability to admit that you worry about each other would be amusing in  _ any other situation, _ I am still trying to save our collective asses, and your quarreling is not helping me concentrate, so do us all a favor and shut up unless you want me to drive into a wall!”

Napoleon and Illya quiet instantly, chastised.

The ringing sound of gunshots slowly dwindles. The car jostles as Gaby picks up to a speed that would be inadvisable under other circumstances, and their pursuers are slowly left in the dust.

After a stretch of tense—and furious, on Gaby’s part—silence, Gaby turns the car down an unpaved road and begins to head towards their safehouse. At the sudden lurch of the car, Napoleon slides across the worn seats and bumps shoulders with Illya. He shoots a hand out to steady himself, and as he does, the sleeve of his shirt slips down and reveals the beginnings of deep purple bruises blooming on the delicate skin of his wrists, pressed in with rough, greedy fingers and rubbed raw by Akeley’s too-tight handcuffs.

He goes to tug his sleeve back over the damaged skin, but Illya’s eyes are quick. He catches Napoleon’s wrist and brings his arm up closer to examine it in the descending twilight. His grip is surprisingly gentle, fingers applying the barest touch to the bruises, and Napoleon resists the sick urge to press harder into his hands, to feel the dull flare of pain against the pressure of Illya’s skin.

The look Illya shoots him is accusatory. “All under control, Cowboy?”

Napoleon schools his features as best as he can and shrugs his shoulders. He knows Illya hates it when he does that, but he does it anyway, just to get a reaction. “It gets the job done, doesn’t it? I don’t see why you should be bothered by it. Besides,” and here he gives a raunchy wink, “there’s no harm with a little fun now and then, don’t you think?”

It was not fun. Napoleon aches, is tired and sore and wants only to lie down somewhere soft to sleep and perhaps never wake up again, but he has appearances to keep up. He plasters on a grin and waits for Illya’s response.

Illya drops Napoleon’s arm and frowns deeply at the marks on his creamy skin. Strictly speaking, Illya’s expressions are rarely positive enough to be classified as beyond the realm of vague disgruntlement, but he looks even more unhappy than usual at Napoleon’s blasé remark, and he says, slowly, “What I think is that perhaps. Perhaps they are asking too much of you. Does not look like much fun to me.” His finger twitches against his leg.

Illya has never approved of Napoleon’s use of sex as a mission tactic. That being said, Napoleon thinks that right now he somehow seems more than just unsettled, hunched over in the shadows of the car, tension written into the lines of his shoulders. There is something dark and unnamed simmering just beneath the surface of his eyes, and Napoleon realizes that this is the first time since they’ve teamed up that he’s been assigned to a honeypot for a male mark.

Something cold and bitter forms under his tongue, and it scrapes and scratches brutally at his throat as he tries to swallow it down. He fights to keep his expression even, and hopes that his partner doesn’t notice.

Fortunately, when it comes to Illya, teasing and underhanded insults always work wonders as diversionary tactics.

“Like you’d know much about that,” snorts Napoleon, his tone carefully constructed to come off as light and casual as possible, “Someone whose entire wardrobe consists of black turtlenecks should not be lecturing anybody about fun. And really, Peril, do try to put more trust in my skills. This one mission can hardly be counted as too much for me.”

There is something in Illya’s face that says he wants to talk more about Akeley, a vague impression around the jut of his chin and the clench of his brow, but he does not give voice to those thoughts. “They are comfortable and practical. I cannot say the same about your suits.” He pauses, just the slightest hesitation, then continues on. “And I do trust you, Cowboy. Even if your plans are stupid.”

Illya is willing to let the topic go, and Napoleon lets the tension leach out of his body. The less he thinks about Akeley, the better.

As for Illya’s second statement, he tries not to read into it too much. Illya trusts him like he trusts Gaby, like Gaby trusts them. There is nothing more to be said there.

They slip back into their comfortable banter, Gaby interjecting with her usual dry comments, and the almost steely set of Illya’s features fades away minute by minute until only a familiarly fond exasperation remains. By now, the roads are empty, the shadows of trees blown wide and purple by the light of the moon, and Napoleon watches the murky scenery whip past in between exchanging half-hearted barbs with his partners.

There are dents in the metal of the doors, one window is shattered, the three of them are crammed, sweating and tired, into a car that was not built for high-speed chases—but there is also a folder of important papers tucked under Napoleon’s arm, and U.N.C.L.E.’s best team has, once again, completed their mission with a characteristic amount of flair and shooting.

Hours later, Napoleon stands under the steaming spray of the safe-house shower and rubs a hand across his mottled wrists. He presses down hard enough to rid the surrounding skin of its color, and winces at the feeling. When he lets up the pressure, the bruises come back. They sit on him quietly, purple and red. If they were covered up by cloth, no one would even know they were there.

Napoleon’s shoulders are sore, his legs are tired, his body aches and aches and aches. But he is always like this after missions like these, so he rubs and wipes and does not think about the way he wishes that the water could rinse himself out of his skin, wash him away to somewhere calm, a quiet place where it is just him and the still air, no rough hands, no fake smiles. He does not think about blonde hair, a soft touch, the faintest gleam of white teeth. He does not think about anything.

Napoleon ducks his head under the shower stream, eyes closed, and lowers his head, feeling the droplets drip off his chin.

The water rinses away the sweat and dust, but the bruises don’t fade until the next week.

***

The months pass, mission after mission, and Napoleon settles himself into the comfortable, well-worn groove of the weary-hearted. He does not have to feign his laughter, not when he is with the two people he has come to trust most in the world, but something still twinges when he looks at Illya for too long.

It would be so much easier, he thinks sometimes, if Illya were cold and unreachable and barren, every inch the distant frosty plains that he had initially appeared to be. Yes, it would be much, much better if Illya were standoffish and cruel, if his lips did not twitch at Gaby's horrible jokes, if he did not humor Napoleon's numerous attempts to beat him at chess, if he did not insist on checking on their wounds after every mission gone wrong. Unfortunately for Napoleon, that is not the case. He has long since given up on agonizing over it.

In the little time they have between missions, the team crashes together at the safehouses that U.N.C.L.E. has scattered across the globe. Napoleon treasures these little pockets of peace, for they are when he and his partners can unwind completely. He dresses down and walk around the small apartments in comfortable, casual clothes, locks curling without the weight of his pomade. He watches Gaby sit down and inventory her growing collection of guns and her expanding selection of large sunglasses, both of them spread out side by side on the coffee table as she sprawls, hair down and limbs loose, on the couch. He takes in the sight of a sleep-disheveled Illya—he usually arises an hour before either Gaby or Napoleon even stir in their beds—shuffling through the kitchen to reach the coffee brewer, wrinkling his nose at the cold tile against his bare feet.

He also watches Illya and Gaby disappear into rooms to talk quietly to each other for hours, or share secretive looks over the kitchen table, or bump their knees together on the overstuffed loveseats. He observes them quietly, hidden behind thick newspapers or the distorted bottom of his scotch glass, and the squeeze of his lungs, the wrenching in his chest is so full and aching that it frightens him, and he cannot quite pin it down, although with the way it feels so thick and heavy, the way it leaves him feeling grey and drained-away, he could almost say it was loss, could almost say it was sadness, could almost—

But that is neither here nor there.

Napoleon will be fine. He tells himself this over and over and over, and on some days he thinks it so many times that he can actually pretend it is true.

In the end, that is what he does best—pretend. He slides on a mask and smiles and laughs, charms his way into bed after bed after bed. He knows how to draw in the unsuspecting with the cant of his hips, the curve of his lips. Napoleon, with his pretty face, his easy smile, his smooth voice and gleaming eyes. Napoleon, the seducer.

And he knows, better than most, that there is no room for sentimentality in his line of work. No time for sweet words and little gifts, romance and happiness. So if he dreams sometimes about waking up to murmured Russian and tender kisses, a warm hand on his cheek, the sheets tangled around their legs, well.

It’s only a dream.

***

It all comes to a head one muggy summer night in Paris.

They’re staying at a hotel on the tail end of an incredibly easy and uneventful mission. The rooms are comfortable, nearly extravagant in their design and furnishings. It’s exactly the type of place Napoleon would have chosen to stay at had he been given the choice, and he has no complaints about anything except for the pitiful excuses for art hung upon the walls.

He and Illya are in Napoleon’s room, sipping at their drinks as they stare out across the city. Illya let himself in ten minutes ago, and hasn’t said a single word since he poured himself some vodka and came to stand next to his partner.

Both of them stand just inside the doorway to the balcony, savoring the slight breeze that is flowing through the wide glass doors. The heat is smothering enough that both of them have dressed down—Napoleon has forgone his suits for a simple white dress shirt, and Illya has removed his horrendous brown jacket. His black turtleneck clings to his frame, and Napoleon watches him out of the corners of his eyes.

Gaby is out in the city despite the weather, no doubt soaking up the sights and tastes and fine fashions of France. She had spent at least a quarter of the flight complaining about how the last mission ruined several of her favorite outfits—running and jumping and dodging bullets tend to have that effect on one’s expensive silks—and Napoleon has no doubts that she is buying new clothes to replace them as soon as she can. He would have accompanied her—he secretly treasures watching her smile widen whenever she finds a new dress to add to her wardrobe—but she had made it quite clear early on that while she enjoys Napoleon’s gifts of accessories and such, she much prefers Illya’s fashion advice.

Come to think of it, Napoleon has no idea why Illya isn’t accompanying her right now. He turns to his partner, who seems strangely tense. He seems as though he might snap at Napoleon, should he disturb him from his thoughts.

Napoleon breaks the silence anyway.

“Don’t get me wrong, Peril, I appreciate your company tonight—there’s nothing like drinking in a taciturn silence after a long day—but why aren’t you with Gaby, helping her pick out new clothes? I’m under the impression that she’d quite enjoy your presence.”

Illya gives him a look. “She is her own woman, Cowboy. She does not need someone hovering over her to make fashion choices for her.”

“I didn’t say that. It’s just that a darling lady such as herself, out on her own—someone might take an interest in her,” Napoleon hints a little harder, since Illya doesn’t seem to be catching his meaning.

Illya stares at him again, visibly puzzled. “You know she can take care of herself. She is better shot than you, and she always has gun in her purse.” He sets his glass down as though to emphasize his point.

Good God, the man is dense. It’s no wonder he and Gaby haven’t gotten anywhere in the past several months. Napoleon feels a newfound swell of respect for her patience. “I am quite aware, thank you for that reminder.” He remembers the day she proved that very well, and the memory brings up a mixture of embarrassment and pride.

Illya rolls his shoulders, and Napoleon’s gaze is drawn to the bunching of muscle beneath the cotton of his shirt. He tears his eyes away, then knocks back the rest of his scotch and sets his glass down as well. “I’m just saying, I thought you’d want to join her.”

“Perhaps I wanted to stay in tonight.” Illya’s voice is tight with something Napoleon can’t identify. He feels a slight tug of confusion, the back-and-forth sway of uncertainty—but then again, Napoleon has been feeling a lot of that these days. He’s starting to think that he’ll never get back onto solid ground.

“Perhaps,” agrees Napoleon, tone carefully even. “I do make very good company.”

Illya hums noncommittally. They are standing very close together, Napoleon notes, close enough that he can almost make out every individual lash that frames Illya’s blue eyes. He feels unusually warm.

Napoleon tugs at his collar a bit, pulls it away to expose more of his neck and release the heat gathering there. Illya follows the motion with his eyes. “Well, I suppose it works out. It’s always better with two people.”

They are quiet for a while, and simply take in the sight of the buildings rising in the distance—or, at least Illya is. Napoleon continues to watch Illya in his peripheral vision.

He’s standing unusually straight, even for him. It looks uncomfortable. Napoleon feels his back ache just from looking at it.

He reaches out to pat Illya on the shoulder, partly to gauge his mood, partly just to feel the hard warmth of his body under his turtleneck. “Loosen up, Peril! People would think you’re drinking with the devil with how wound up you look—”

Illya starts, and catches Napoleon’s hand by the wrist.

They stare at each other for a long moment. Illya’s fingers tighten, and his skin blanches where they touch. Napoleon remembers, fleetingly, a Norwegian evening, cramped leather seats and chafed skin and those same fingers ghosting over purple bruises.

Somehow, this feels different.

His heart thrums, and he is sure that Illya can feel it through his pulse.

A car rumbles past quietly, and the purr of its engine fades gradually into the dark. His lips feel dry, and he darts his tongue out absently.

Illya’s gaze flickers down to his mouth, then back up. In a sudden, startling clarity, Napoleon sees that his eyes are filled with want.

Heat jolts through his gut, spreading quick and sticky like spilled wine. He knows what he looks like, knows how to use his charms on a mark. But Illya was an entirely different category, an entirely different universe of his own, and to think—to think—

To be honest, Napoleon had not allowed himself to think of this.

And it dawns on him, that Gaby and Illya have been dancing around each other for months on end. Any day now, they’ll pull their heads out of the sand and realize they’re meant for each other. But for now, they haven’t gone anywhere. For now, Napoleon still has a window of opportunity.

And he knows that he’s horrible and self-centered and pathetic for even contemplating it—but Napoleon also knows that he is nothing if not selfish. With a flash of white-hot certainty, Napoleon knows what Illya wants from him, knows exactly how this evening will play out.

If Illya wants to fuck him, then Napoleon certainly won’t discourage him. He will take anything that Illya is willing to offer—the smallest bit of attention, the most fleeting touch of his hand. Napoleon gapes open with the ferocity of his hunger, a stray dog panting at Illya’s heels, begging for scraps. He  _ wants _ , and the force of it nearly frightens him.

And even if Illya does not feel the same—and he knows this, carries it in his blood like a toxin—that is fine. Napoleon can have this. He can endure anything that comes afterwards, be it a request for his transfer, Illya’s fists against his face, anything—Napoleon will take it all for Illya’s hands on his skin.

Illya is still staring at him, and Napoleon can stand it no longer.

With his free hand, he yanks Illya forward by the front of his stupid turtleneck, and kisses him.

For a moment, Illya’s mouth hangs slack beneath his, and Napoleon fears the worst. But, as though suddenly shocked into motion, Illya surges forward against his body and drags Napoleon into his arms. He drops his wrist and cups the back of his head, holding Napoleon in place against the insistent press of Illya’s lips, while his other arm wraps around Napoleon's waist and brings him in closer, forcing him to tilt his head up towards the taller man.

Napoleon can’t catch his breath. Illya looms over him, smothering him in the hungry grab of his hands and the long lines of his body. There’s something that feels nearly wild, uncontrolled, in the force of his touch. Napoleon, starved for the feeling of Illya against him, welcomes it with open arms, presses closer and breathes him in like a drowning man.

He lets go of Illya’s shirt and clutches at his broad shoulders. The hand at his waist slides down and palms firmly into his lower back, and as Napoleon gasps into Illya’s mouth, Illya takes the chance to flick his tongue against Napoleon’s lower lip. Napoleon nearly whimpers.

Illya tastes like vodka and salt and afternoon sun and Napoleon wants to immerse himself in it, wants to pry open his chest and let it seep through between his ribs.

Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, Napoleon knows that this can only end in pain.

He is beyond caring.

They stumble back, and the backs of Napoleon’s knees hit the loveseat in the center of the room. He sinks down into a filthy sprawl, half sitting, half lying down, and the softness of the velvety cushions is startling in contrast to the hard, heavy body pinning him in place. The loveseat groans beneath them at their combined weight, and Illya pulls back slightly just to dive in again, smearing hot kisses against the sharp line of Napoleon’s jaw.

Napoleon writhes, desperate for more contact, splayed open and wanton, as Illya slots himself between the gaping spread of his thighs. He can’t think about anything else—the noise from the streets below, the furniture in the room—everything else falls away as his senses narrow down to Illya’s taste, his smell, his touch. Illya’s hands are clenched in his clothes, crumpling the fabric and ruining the clean lines of his shirt, but Napoleon does not care.

Let Illya ruin him, wrinkle his clothing, mark his skin. Then, when it is all over, Napoleon will have something other than an aching heart and sore limbs to remember this night by.

Napoleon’s own hands grip Illya’s alarmingly muscled back, then move down to tug insistently at where Illya’s shirt is tucked into his pants. As soon as the fabric is freed, he shoves the hem up and then smooths his hands across the hot expanse of Illya’s skin.

Illya is nipping his way down the pale column of his neck, and Napoleon tips his head back to make room, gasping as Illya licks at his clavicle. Involuntarily, his hips buck up, and Illya’s movements stutter as he feels him grind against him. Grinning, Napoleon does it again.

Illya growls, and moves back up to Napoleon’s mouth. One hand pins Napoleon’s shoulder to the loveseat, and the other wraps around his thigh and hitches it up against Illya’s hip. He licks into Napoleon’s mouth, hungry and hot.

“Ah,” Napoleon pants against his lips, “when you came up to my room, I can’t say that this is what I was expecting.”

Illya freezes.

Napoleon stops where he is, and pulls back slightly in question.

“Peril? What’s wrong? I wasn’t complaining, you know, I—” He is cut off as Illya lurches back and off his body.

Napoleon feels, as Illya stumbles off the loveseat, that he has done something horribly wrong.

His hands are ripped from Illya’s body, and he reaches out again only to be stopped by the horror on Illya’s face. He looks like he’s just been slapped awake. Napoleon’s heart plummets. “Illya?”

“I—no.” Illya’s eyes are huge. He backs away. “You are—I cannot do this. It was a mistake.”  

“A mistake,” echoes Napoleon, dumbly. He’s breathless from kissing. He can still feel the flush of desire on his cheeks, the stinging swell of his lips. With Illya’s steady warmth gone, the front of his body feels cold.

Illya’s jaw works, and he opens his mouth before snapping it shut again with a click of teeth. The silence hangs heavy over the both of them, settling thickly in the air between them. Everything around them seems to come back into focus, a downpour of icy awareness over the heat of the moment. Napoleon hears a woman’s distant laughter in the streets below the hotel window, and thinks faintly to himself that it seems as though this room, this moment, lies on a different plane of existence.

He knows he looks ridiculously vulnerable, sprawled across the loveseat with his hair in disarray and color high in his cheeks, laid bare to the bone. He comes to the conclusion, as Illya gapes at him in mute terror, that he has never been a bigger fool in his life.

The silence stretches on and on, and something yawns open in Napoleon’s chest.

_ But of course, _ he thinks.  _ Of course.   _

He sits up from the loveseat and takes a moment to gather himself together. Studiously avoids looking at Illya as he stands there, silent as stone. Raises his hands to straighten his rumpled clothes. Runs a palm over his mussed hair to gain back some semblance of propriety. He keeps his face as smooth and blank as he can—a sharp contrast to his roiling insides. He wants to be sick, and there is something growing in him, cold and exquisitely sharp with gnashing teeth, a vicious something that tears away at the cavity of his chest.

As he rises to his feet, he finally brings his gaze back to Illya. “Well, Peril,” he says lightly. “Didn’t know you were the type to make mistakes like this.” Illya opens up his mouth, and Napoleon holds up a hand to silence him. Illya’s affronted expression makes him want to laugh and cry at the same time. He settles for a smirk, but he thinks it might look more like a grimace.

“Save your breath, Kuryakin. I know when I’m wanted. I must have misread the situation, and I’m sorry for that.” His words are hasty, and nothing is coming out smooth enough for his liking, but he could care less. He needs to tie this mess up quickly, and leave as soon as possible. “This has been fun, but I do believe I need some fresh air, so feel free to see yourself out. I’ll see you and Gaby in the morning. And don’t worry, I won’t tell her anything.” He turns away quickly, ready to flee, to spill himself out somewhere and lick his wounds, and misses the flicker of panic in Illya’s eyes.

Illya catches him by the wrist. “Cowboy, wait.”

Napoleon stills, and with his face turned away from Illya and towards the door, grits his teeth. Why is Illya trying to make this more humiliating than it already is? He doesn’t turn back around, and tries to speak past the choking shame that bubbles up in his throat.

“You’ve already shown me how you feel about this whole...encounter. I’ve already apologized. Do you want to hear it again? I’m sorry. Really, Kuryakin, if you would excuse me…” Napoleon can feel his calm slipping away. He needs to leave, he cannot do this in front of Illya. He needs to crawl away, hide under the thick cover of dark to tear out the vicious thing thrashing against his heart—he needs to be somewhere quiet, somewhere far, somewhere that is anywhere but here, but Illya’s long fingers are still wrapped around his wrist.

Not for the first time, Napoleon curses Illya for his near-inhuman strength. He does not want to be around to hear what the other will say. He tugs at his trapped hand, and Illya’s grip tightens. He still won’t let go.

Napoleon’s heart is flinging itself against his ribcage, and he tries to quell his rising panic. What is the point of dragging this all out? He hadn’t thought that Illya was the type of person to enjoy other people’s shame, but perhaps he misjudged that—just as he has clearly misjudged the entire situation. He swallows hard, and the wet noise is like a gunshot in the near-silent room.

He risks a peek back—Illya’s eyebrows are furrowed, his face stormy, but he looks more bewildered than angry. Napoleon likes to think that he has a good grasp of the Red Peril’s near-inscrutable expressions, and that face is almost certainly Illya’s I-need-to-say-something-but-I-don’t-know-how face. Perhaps he might still get out of this with his face intact.

Illya visibly casts around for words, and they come out in a rush. “This was mistake. I did not mean to go this far, I,” and he peters out, looking helpless.

Napoleon blinks, tamps down on another surge of searing pain under his sternum.  _ But you knew this would happen, _ he tells himself.  “Yes, Kuryakin. You said that just a minute ago,” he snaps, and all at once, he feels his temper flare.

He knows this scene. He has acted in it countless times. When it comes to decent, honest men like Illya, there is only one thing Napoleon is good for—he was a fool to even imagine having more. He really cannot be mad at Illya, cannot fault him for pulling Napoleon in and then pushing him away. He has no right to feel wronged, he should know better—this is just how these things go.

But something still rises, hot and unpleasant, in his throat. Napoleon does not know how else to get Illya to let him leave, so he lashes out.

“I know what you’re going to say. This was all a mistake, you doing this with me was a mistake, you’re in love with Gaby, so on.” Illya’s mouth is open, his eyes are wide, and Napoleon hates himself a little more for finding that confused look endearing, even under the thick haze of his humiliation and anger. Illya looks like he wants to say something, but Napoleon charges on ahead. He does not want to hear it. “I’ve heard it all before. I understand. You’re not the first confused man who tried to use the nearest warm body to figure himself out. I’ve apologized already, what more do you want from me?” Napoleon yanks on his hand again, but Illya still doesn’t let go. He blows out a breath, frustrated. “The way I see it, this can go two ways. You can let me go back to my room and we forget all about this in the morning, pretend it never happened,  and you can go back to being in love with Gaby. Or, you can keep me here and tell me the same things that I’ve heard countless times, and we can let this mess stew between us until you grow sick of my presence and ask for me to be transferred to a different team. Your choice.”

There is a long silence. His blood is rushing in his ears, and the walls seem to throb in time with his heartbeat. The occupant in the room above his creaks their way across the floor, and Napoleon swears that he can hear even the delicate ticking of the watch strapped onto Illya’s strong wrist.

Napoleon has had his fair share of long silences for the day, and finds himself growing rather sick of them.

Illya looks harried. “You misunderstand—I, I am not confused.” His words come out in a jumble.

“Really? I’m misunderstanding? You kissed me back and then pushed me away, Kuryakin. You seem pretty goddamn confused to me.”

“The kiss—”

“Don’t say it. I know.”

“I did not mean that it was a mistake to—”

“You said it yourself, you literally said, ‘This is a mistake’, how else am I supposed to take it?” Napoleon sighs, sick with regret and anger. “Look, I think it’d be best if I left—”

“No Cowboy,  _ listen. _ You think I am in love with Gaby?”

Napoleon blinks, “Yes, Gaby,” he replies slowly, as if speaking to a child. “Don’t bother denying it, it’s obvious from the way you look at her.”

Something is dawning in Illya’s eyes. His shoulders slump down in something that looks suspiciously like relief, and he gives his head a shake before scoffing softly. Napoleon is appropriately offended, but Illya speaks before he can protest. “Only you, Cowboy. Typical American, thinks he knows everything around him but does not realize what is actually happening.”

Napoleon is even more offended. “Excuse me?”

Illya’s eyes soften, and he replies, “Gaby, she is like a sister. Beautiful, yes. Smart, yes. But not what I want. She has been helping, the last couple of weeks, trying to talk me into telling you. I was not looking at her, Cowboy.”

Napoleon is confused beyond belief. This is not going the way he thought it would. “Illya, what? I...where are you going with this?”

Illya tilts his head, looks at Napoleon with his soft eyes, and says simply, “I was looking at  _ you. _ ”

For once in his life, Napoleon is speechless.

He thinks back to Illya’s soft, sweet, tender looks. The affection clear on his face, eyes carefully averted whenever Napoleon had directed his gaze at him.

_ Looking at you. _

There aren’t many ways to take that statement. Napoleon prays, against his better judgement, that it means what he thinks it does. He regains control of his mouth, and manages a weak, “...You said it was a mistake.”

Illya shakes his head. “Was poor wording on my part, Cowboy. I did not mean for you to take it that way. I meant...I had a plan in mind, things…” he stumbles over his words a bit, “things did not go to plan. I panicked.” He ducks his head, suddenly hesitant.

Napoleon is, for lack of a better word, bewildered. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. What could you possibly want from me, if not…?”

Illya takes Napoleon’s hand in both of his own. Napoleon, the residual traces of shock still in his system, lets him. His hands cup Napoleon’s with none of the tightness from his earlier grip on Napoleon’s wrist. One calloused thumb smooths across the pale ridges of his knuckles and Illya looks at him, something like uncertainty playing across his face.

Napoleon waits patiently, and Illya appears to steel himself, straightening to his full height and taking a deep breath before responding.

“I would like to...court you. Properly.”

Napoleon’s breath stops. For a moment, he thinks Illya has gone mad, and panics at the thought of explaining Illya’s spontaneous loss of sanity to Gaby when she returns. Then he realizes that Illya is still staring at him anxiously, clearly waiting for an answer. Napoleon pulls himself back into the present, clears his throat.

“Ah. Pardon?” Perhaps not the most eloquent answer he could have given. Napoleon cringes and tries again. “Are you sure you meant that, Peril? The English language is quite nuanced at times, and courting is a very old-fashioned concept. I’m sure you—”

“I know what courting means. You have not answered me.” Illya appears to have been possessed by nervous energy, and seems to be vibrating in place.

Napoleon still is not sure what is going on—but when in doubt, deflect. “I wasn’t aware that you asked a question. And, really, I just imagined you in Victorian menswear. Let me tell you, it isn’t as bad as one would imagine—”

“Napoleon!” Illya cuts him off, and the sound of his given name rolling off of Illya’s tongue silences him more effectively than any gag. Illya’s words seems to be spilling out of him now, egged on by his frustration. “Shut up for a moment and listen. I know what you are doing. You cannot distract me like you do with your marks. I know you better than that.” He takes a moment to confirm that Napoleon has, indeed, shut up and started to listen, then continues on.

"I want you. Want all of you. I will not leave you after I use you for night of fun. You deserve better than being rented out for missions—” and here Napoleon shoots him an incredulous stare. Illya glares back. “Do not give me that look, Cowboy. I know what you think about such missions. Do not try to hide it. And I know what you feel for me, always looking when you think I am not paying attention—you forget I am no fool.” His eyes are sharp. “You are not as sneaky as you think. Terrible spy.”

Napoleon’s heart shudders against the cradle of his ribs. Either he is much more transparent than he thought, or Illya has learned to read him very, very well. He is not sure which thought makes him more uneasy.

He huffs softly, both to surreptitiously clear his throat and to hide the fact that he is scrambling for a proper response. “Why, Peril, you almost make me think you care about me.”

Illya returns his gaze steadily. “I do.”

Once again Napoleon is taken aback. That seems to be happening rather often, today.

Illya is still looking at him, eyes intent. Napoleon shuffles on the spot, casts his gaze around the room in an attempt to avoid looking back at Illya, and ends up fixing his stare on the incredibly bland painting of a sailboat on the wall. “Peril, you seem to be under the impression that I am a blushing girl who needs to be romanced. I feel it is necessary to assure you that I am a grown man who has had his fair share of experience, and I daresay, considerably more than y—”

“But not like this,” interjects Illya, and damn him, he’s right, and he knows it too.

“Illya. I—what I do. On missions. You know how often it’s requested of me. The mission is the mission. I can’t control it.” He’s still addressing the sailboat. Napoleon knows that his honeypots yield satisfactory results, that his work brings success even if he does not enjoy it, but somehow speaking so frankly about them right now, in front of Illya—he feels almost naked. He can’t bring himself to meet his eyes.

“I think the real question is, Cowboy, are you fine with them?” Napoleon doesn’t say anything, but his silence is answer enough. “This is what I thought. I will have talk with Waverly.” His tone darkens, and Napoleon can tell quite clearly how little talking will actually occur. “There will be no more of this.” A gentle finger under Napoleon’s chin turns his face, and he meets Illya’s pale eyes. “Do you hear me, Napoleon? You are not tool to be used. You are more than this.” He is confident, now that nothing has been said to contradict him.

Napoleon jerks his head, helpless. “I hear you.”

Illya considers him.

“So do not try to deflect. I know you want me, and I know I want you.” Napoleon’s heart is pounding so furiously that he is certain Illya can hear it.

“But if you do not want  _ this, _ tell me now."

Napoleon is silent.

Illya smiles, his gaze fond, and Napoleon feels weak. There is something gentle and bright blooming in his chest. “I am glad this is clear, Cowboy.”

One of the hands on his drops down, and guides him closer by the waist. The curve of Illya’s smile is gentle and Napoleon wants to lean forward, drown himself in it. Distracted as he is, he does not notice that Illya is drawing Napoleon’s hand up, closer to his face, until Illya’s warm breath hits his knuckles. Illya’s head dips forward, his eyes never leaving Napoleon’s, and brushes his lips against the back of the hand in his grasp. His mouth is soft, reverent even, and Napoleon’s face goes uncharacteristically hot. His stomach feels strange and fluttery.

“No more of your champagne and flattery, Cowboy.” Illya murmurs against his skin. “We do this the proper way. Slow, steady. I will show you,” and here he smirks, a tiny, pleased thing that has something lurching flame-bright and heavy in Napoleon’s belly, “how a real gentleman acts.”

Napoleon, drunk on Illya’s closeness and the heat of his body, can only nod. His lack of a comeback is really rather embarrassing for him, but he supposes he can let it go for now.

After an undetermined length of time, Illya begins to move away, and Napoleon makes a small noise of protest. Illya chuckles. “Gaby will be back by now. Will be wanting to hear back from me. She told me last week, she will burn my jacket if I do not get myself together.”

Napoleon smiles despite himself. Of course, their Chop Shop Girl was clever enough to see this coming from miles away, a long time before either of them were even aware of it happening. She’s truly making a habit of blowing his assumptions apart when he least expects it. He nudges forward into Illya’s space again, tips his head up to look at him.

“You said you’d be a gentleman, Peril. Don’t I get a goodnight kiss?” He flutters his eyelashes coyly.

Illya feigns confusion, but the small grin tugging at his lips gives him away. “Kiss? I gave you one just now. You were there, you should know it happened.”

Napoleon rolls his eyes. “A kiss on the hand, Illya? That’s elementary, hardly something to make a girl feel special. I’m feeling rather neglected—and you were practically ravaging me ten minutes ago, don’t give me any excuses.”

Illya flushes then, and the tips of his ears go red. He looks surprisingly sheepish. “That was overstep on my part. You surprised me.” He stops, considering, and grins broadly. Napoleon is caught off by the playful sharpness of it.

“And a kiss on hand is not elementary, not if it could make you blush so pretty like that.”

Heat blooms in Napoleon’s face, and he casts around for a snarky response, but comes up empty-handed. Looking fond, Illya swipes a thumb over his pinked cheekbone and takes advantage of his flustered state to retreat towards the door. “I will see you in the morning, Cowboy.”

Napoleon gapes after him. “Hey,” he protests, sounding a bit more petulant than he would prefer. “You—”

Illya already has one hand on the door, and he turns his head to give Napoleon a smug look. “Good  _ night. _ "

He slips out into the muffled quiet of the hotel hallway. The door clicks shut behind him.

Napoleon stands in the center of the room, eyes still fixed on the closed door. Slowly, he folds himself down into the loveseat, much more like a crumpling of knees than a controlled descent than he is willing to admit. His chest is tight, his legs are weak, and his heart beats, and beats, and beats.

There is something resting on the small table next to the loveseat, and it is a testament to exactly how distracting Illya was that Napoleon did not notice him leave it behind. Upon closer look, it appears to be a figure of a cat. There’s a note with it, in Illya’s slanted writing.

_ Starting small. Reminded me of you. _

He takes the carving and turns it over in his hands. It’s a small, dark thing, and he realizes that it is the same statue he saw Illya in the marketplace in Madrid, all those months ago, the one that he thought was for Gaby. Back when he had only just came to grips with the depth of his attachment to his partner. Back when he was absolutely convinced that Illya and Gaby were meant to be.

The cat is laid out on its side, paws stretched out above its head, tail curved. There’s a faint hint of small, pointed fangs, and it stares at him through narrowed eyes, languid and keen all at once.

He traces the lines of the surface with his fingers. The stone is still slightly warm, perhaps from being tucked away close to Illya's body, and Napoleon cannot fathom where exactly he would have been hiding it, since his hands had been all over Illya and he hadn't felt anything—but, he thinks, tonight has also been a clear lesson that perhaps he is not as observant as he believes. Suddenly, even through the lingering haze of disbelief, Napoleon finds it all very funny. His head tips back, and he laughs, breathless. The cushions of the loveseat are all over the floor, and his hair is still a mess, and the breeze coming in from the balcony door is starting to get a little too much for his liking, but he cannot bring himself to care. He feels warm all over.

He thinks about late nights and slow dances, purple shadows and small cars. He thinks about dreamlike mornings, soft sheets and tangled limbs. He rolls up his sleeves, and the skin of his arms is smooth, unblemished. Bruiseless.

Napoleon remembers the gentle touch of fingers on his wrist, and for the first time in a very long time, he allows himself to hope.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> hello! it’s my very first time writing fanfiction (or really any fiction ever, i'm not at all a writer), so it’s safe to say i’m pretty nervous. i honestly have no idea what i’m doing, and posting this kinda makes me wanna peel my skin off and disappear, but i just love these boys too much to sit around and do nothing. please please please let me know what you think in the comments!


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